Wrath of the Chosen
by Arthur88
Summary: Slightly AU. Six powerful Orcs, all with a grudge against the Gravewalker, join forces with one of the Nazgûl to claim their revenge. Talion and Celebrimbor must now rally their forces to battle a powerful and skilled enemy hell-bent on destroying them. (Set in Seregost before the mission to hunt Helm Hammerhand)
1. Chapter 1

_**Given my current addiction to Shadow of War (and my current playthrough in particular- I've encountered some of my favourite Orc enemies in this particular form, and my general sense of disgust and disappointment with the Blade of Galadriel DLC, I got inspired to write this based on a desire to include one of my favourite background characters from the works of Tolkien; namely Khamûl the Easterling, the only Ringwraith besides the Witch King Tolkien ever identified who I've been fascinated by ever since seeing his depiction in the Battle of the Five Armies. Since unless he appears in the Desolation of Mordor DLC, Shadow of War will overlook Khamûl, this is just my attempt to bring him into the setting and give the Black Easterling a chance to battle the Gravewalker (As well as write something involving my favourite Orc enemies and followers within the game). Will be a beat of a slow burning thing like all my FF projects at the moment, but I do plan to finish this...hope you all enjoy my attempt to write a story involving the war for Mordor...**_

* * *

**_The mountains of Seregost, four months after the fall of Minas Ithil_**

Amûg Sword-Master stamped his feet impatiently by the fire, waiting for the last of the gathering to arrive. All around the campfires that dotted the mountain pass connecting the valley of Seregost to the plains of Gorgoroth, Orcs in service to near half a dozen ambitious captains huddled near to campfires and braziers, swigging from casks of grog and chewing on scraps of ghûl and caragor meat from the few creatures the hunters had managed to bring down, in an effort to ward off the cold- winter had come early to the mountains and the blizzards had been savage; many of those gathered had already lost some members of their forces to the snow and ice. The enforced inactivity was beginning to grate on the gathered Orcs, and fights and murders had already broken out amongst the lesser grunts, though to Amûg's satisfaction, none of the captains gathered at his invitation had lowered themselves to get involved in conflicts between their underlings, for which he was relieved. His new master had grand plans for them all, and it would irritate him greatly to lose even one such potential recruit.

 _'_ _I will not fail him'_ the Orc thought, rubbing the skin of his throat beneath the hem of the sackcloth bag he wore tied about his face to hide the extent of the blade and burn scars across his broad visage, the work of some scummy Tark in Nurnen. _'I owe him too much already my life, my army, becoming a warchief- and hopefully will receive more, to fail my new master now'_

"How muchth longer do we hath to wait, Ahmûg?" a familiar, slurring voice grumbled from behind him; Amûg turned, the motion pulling tight the burn scars across his face and neck to face the speaker, a stocky, bronze-skinned Orc from Cirith Ungol, clad in scraps of mail and plate armour nailed and fused together, a sickle-curved blade engraved with cursed runes sheathed at the waist, and a horrendously ugly face with protruding fangs, a droopy eye and a mouth that perpetually hung open, slack-jawed, causing the Orc to continually lisp and drool. He had been one of the first to answer the call- Bolg Iron-Skull, formerly Bolg Gold-Thief, a skilled raider and marauder in the Spider's Cleft, until a brutal blow to the head with a hammer had left a concave crater in the left temple that had driven bone deep into his brain, leaving Bolg deformed.

"You promithed my boyz a good scrap and me payback for my head" Bolg snapped, rubbing the circular scar in his head "but we're just sitting here, freething and starving! I've lost six of my boyz to the cold and the caragors as it ith!"

"Soon enough, Bolg, we'll be moving" Amûg assured him. "Once the last of us arrives, then the offer you are waiting to hear will be made to you. And trust me, you will want to hear it". Bolg growled and sullenly wiped another line of drool from his slack mouth, but reluctantly nodded and headed back to his camp. Beneath his cloth mask, Amûg bared his fangs in a malevolent smile; no matter his dislike of the situation and the location, Bolg _would_ wait. The promise all of them had been lured to Seregost with was too tempting for them to pass up.

A buzzing in his ear drew Amûg's attention away from Bolg's retreating back; looking round, he saw a hairy black insect with a large red dot on its back land on his right pauldron. The Orc's gauntleted hand darted out, catching the Morgai fly in its grasp and crushing it as Amûg smiled again, baring hooked, yellow fangs; the last of their number had arrived. Out of the night, a tall, thin and misshapen figure stalked over to stand across from Amûg at the fireside, the flames casting his disfigured frame into relief; ugly, horny growths that looked almost like wood stretching across the left side of his chest, shoulder and skull, protruding out from the Orc's jaw and obliterating the left eye and most of the nose, red-and-black bodied Morgai flies crawling in and out of the hideous growths turning the Orc into their living, breathing hive. Nor was the misshapen nature of the newcomer confined there; his arms had been severed raggedly by a Tark's sword, the right at the elbow, the left at the shoulder, and replaced by the Machine Tribe's finest metal workers with rusted iron prostheses, tipped with hooked claws dripping with ghûl venom, sufficient to dull senses and reactions, making the stricken more likely to miss a stroke...leaving a perfect opening for the fatal blow.

"You're late, Khrosh" Amûg opined to the newcomer. Khrosh of the Flies, formerly a deadly assassin in service to the warchief Mozu Man-Breaker before his untimely death in Cirith Ungol, Khrosh had been reborn when a human sword had opened his belly as a swarm of Morgai flies tore and bit him when a well-placed arrow had brought their nest smashing down onto his skull, infesting his wounds, cutting away his flesh and remoulding it into their new home. Somehow, the infestion had not killed Khrosh; instead he had come back stronger, using the flies that swarmed his body to cover his approach as he moved in for the kill or, when the element of surprise was lost, using the swarm to blind and confound his enemies as Khrosh made to strike the fatal blow.

"Couldn't be helped; had to fix up a loose end or two" the assassin retorted as he tossed something across the fire to land at Amûg's feet. The burned warchief picked it up; a Orc head, severed raggedly at the neck, still covered by the black cloth hood and iron mask of a member of the Dark Tribe. Amûg studied the face, surprised to see it was one he recognised.

"Skoth Ranger-Killer. He would have been of use for what's planned"

"The Gravewalker got to him before your messenger did" Khrosh replied with a shrug of his malformed shoulders. "When your message arrived, I had to make sure he wouldn't pass it on to the Bright Lord". Amûg scowled at the loss of Skoth but conceded the necessity of the killing; his new master had been adamant the Gravewalker couldn't find out what they were planning until the hammer blow came crashing down. With Khrosh's arrival, Amûg pulled the warhorn from his belt and placed it to his scarred, burned lips, blowing a deep, sonorous blast that caught the attention of every Orc in the mountain pass. One by one, he watched as dark shapes moved to join him and Khrosh around the fireside, all of them veterans of Minas Ithil and the perpetual conflicts within Mordor, all of them battle-scarred and marked by war. Beside himself, Khrosh and Bolg, Amûg recognised Lûga Iron-Claw, Thrak Foul-Spawn and Pûgrish the Machine, all lured by the same thing. The Orc captains were all fond of battle, eager for plunder, grog and slaves that would come from the sack of a fortress, but that wasn't the promised prize that had brought them to Seregost.

All of them wanted vengeance. All of them wanted the Gravewalker dead once and for all.

The injuries Amûg, Khrosh and Bolg had suffered at the hands of the Gravewalker spoke for themselves, as did those of Pûgrish, who'd been carved apart by the Gravewalker's blade almost as swiftly as he'd been put back together, both arms and legs, most of his chest and skull replaced with metal plates and prostheses, the paired scimitars he'd once wielded welded to his arms, a part of him. Lûga's namesake was bound and fused to his left shoulder where the Tark's sword had cut it away and he had other reasons to want the Gravewalker dead, namely a blood-brother tortured into madness and then torn apart by a pack of caragors under the Bright Lord's control. Thrak, who'd been doused in toxic, burning slime when a flaming arrow shot from above had ignited a poisoned grog barrel he'd been stood by. By the time Thrak had managed to put the fire out, the skin and flesh of his face had melted like tallow and run like strips down his skull, leaving the bone bare atop his brow and exposing his jaw in a half-melted death's head grin.

"Why are we here, Amûg?!" Thrak defended, his voice rasping and soft. "You promised us loot, revenge, power…but we sit here starving and freezing while our boys either get bored and run off! I want answers, you bag-wearing glob!"

"There is a chance here, lads, to get something-"

"For you, you snivelling rat?!" Pûgrish barked viciously. "To get payback for your spilled guts in Minas Ithil?! To throw us one by one onto the Tark's sword to weigh his blade down, until he's too weak from cutting us up to stop you from taking his head, leaving you with our boys all leaderless and a nice new fortress to call yourself Overlord of?! If you think I'll stand by and be chopped up any more for the sake of a worthless glob like you, you've got even more shrakh for brains than I thought!"

The other orcs muttered agreement, their greed at war with suspicion. Even in its weakened state, the fortress that dominated Seregost would not be easy to take, even more so with the Gravewalker's presence and with such a significant array of forces from all the tribes of Mordor, Uruks and Olog-hai both, and beasts broken to serve in war- caragors, graugs, even a drake or two- whoever was left standing when the dust settled would have a well-positioned fortress and a sizeable army to take advantage of the region with...and most of the captains present had likely toyed with the notion of bumping off their fellows in the heat of battle to be the last one standing. Amûg knew that he had to explain the reason why he'd gathered them, because they were all intended to play a part in a master plan, each a single cog in a mighty machine of war. All they needed now was the last part, a power to counter the Bright Lord's unholy magics… ' _And thanks to my new boss, we'll have that!'_ Amûg thought to himself, his lipless mouth peeling into a fanged grin as he saw mist begin to coalesce along the ground and the all too familiar sound of wings beaten could be heard in the distance.

"I should just say, this plan's not mine" Amûg replied, pointing up at the sky and the fast-approaching new arrival. "It's _his._ Maybe you'll trust his words over mine"

"Oh thrakh!" Bolg lisped in stunned fear as a keening howl like metal being torn cut through the night air while sickly, necrotic green mist began to settle over the mountain pass. "It's a Thrieker!"

The Orcs automatically sank to one knee, their faces looking firmly at the ground as a missile of dark sorcery slammed into the earth and from the greenish-black smoke that billowed from the impact, a translucent figure in armour and helm stepped forward. The armour was reminiscent of that worn by the Easterlings of Rhûn, stalwart allies of the Dark Lord, but whereas the armour of the Easterling cohorts was gold and scarlet, the armour worn by the Nazgûl before them was pewter grey, tinted the necrotic green of dark sorcery. The full helm the Nazgûl wore was reminiscent of ones Amûg had seen denoting Easterling commanders, though it was more ornate, engravings of serpents down the cheek and eye guards, and a pair of curling horns like those of a ram or dragon rising up from the helm's brow. In the Nazgûl's gauntleted right fist, a long spear of Easterling manufacture was clutched, with a bronze, rectangular shield on the left arm and a sabre, its hilt and pommel fashioned like a rearing serpent, sheathed at the hip.

"Lord Khamûl, as you asked, I have gathered the captains you asked of me" Amûg spoke; he had served the Witch King initially, but it had been the Black Easterling who had saved him from dying of a Tark's sword buried almost to the hilt in his chest, had made him his right hand, with the opportunity to both claim his vengeance and potentially rise high in service to one of the Nine. A clawed gauntlet rested on his shoulder as a sepulchral voice, like air escaping from a tomb, answered him.

"You have done well, my champion. Your service will not be forgotten" Khamul spoke before he turned his attention to the other Orcs. "I called you here because I have need of an army, and you have need of my patronage if you are to all achieve your shared design. The words I speak are the Dark Lord's will; Lord Sauron will suffer no rivals. The interference of Celebrimbor's pawn will be tolerated no longer. The Witch King believes the Gravewalker can be turned…the Witch King is a fool. Lord Sauron wishes the Gravewalker's head to decorate a spear atop the gates of Barad-dur…and with your aid, we will tear down the Bright Lord's ambitions once and for all!"

A nimbus of dark sorcery curdled to life in the Nazgûl's hand, slipping between Khamûl's fingers, circling and writhing around the Orcs like metallic serpents, giving them a mere hint of the power that they could have, minor wounds closing up at the merest touch of dark magic. All the gathered Orcs raised their heads, their eyes gleaming with the prospect of victory and vengeance. The Nazgul's words meant far more than the ramblings of one Orc warchief…and if they succeeded, there was a chance to advance further and attain the patronage of the Nine, and even the notice of the Dark Lord himself.

"At the foot of these mountains, the fortress of Khargukor waits. Its defences are damaged and broken by the assault of the lackies of Talion. Its defenders are soft and fat, glutted on the spoils of victory. They will not expect a fresh assault so swiftly from within Seregost's borders…and we will fall upon them like starving caragors and spare nothing within its walls. Rise up as my Chosen, stand at my side and we will purge the stain of Celebrimbor's arrogance from Mordor and put the Gravewalker into his grave for the final time!"


	2. Chapter 2

The sound of hammer and chisel upon stone was a comforting sound to Talion. It might seem mad, but it brought back happier memories; looking out over the battlements of the Black Gate watching men drill as the masons repaired years of damage to Narchost and Carchost, trying to take his mind off things as Ioreth brought him lunch one sunny day and they sat and talked over everything and nothing, his hand pressed to the swell of Ioreth's belly, both laughing as they felt their unborn child kicking, and then years later, watching as Dirhael and the other children the men and women of the garrison had fathered and given birth to over the years clambered and chased each other, refighting the Battle of Dagorlad and the fall of Sauron, interrupting the game as Dirhael played at being Isildur cutting the One Ring from the Dark Lord's hand to laughingly point out his mother was going to kill him for getting dirt on his clothes again...

"How much longer?" Talion asked, allowing himself to be dragged from his reverie as the tall, gaunt figure behind him cleared his throat. Zûgor the Gravewalker, a creature of the Mystic tribe, leaned against the battlements and replied, his face, half-hidden by a shamanistic helmet cobbled together from a ram's skull and silvered steel that rattled and clanked along with the charms and magical fetishes bound to his armour with every step the Orc took as the Overlord and his master made their tour of the defences.

"Repairs to the outer walls should be complete within a fortnight. The captains you dispatched to Gorgoroth should return with sufficient means to acquire siege beasts to defend the gates. Ar-Pratu has provided a significant number of caragors that for the time being, we can turn loose on an attacker's forces, and my hunters should be able to overwhelm creatures set against us. From the air, we are somewhat more exposed; it may do us well to draw some captains commanding archers to bolster our defences- it would help discourage any drakes in the area from attacking. Besides that, I would advise-"

"Thank you, Zûgor. That will be all" Talion interjected brusquely, raising his hand to silence further talk. Looking a little put out at being interrupted, but unwilling to push the matter, the Orc necromancer nodded and departed for the fortress keep, leaving Talion with the sound of hammers hitting stone once again. It was a much comforting sound than the hisses and whispered chanting of their new Overlord's minions as they worshipped and cast spells before graven idols dotted around the fortress's interior. As much as Zûgor had proved a useful ally and a resourceful bodyguard- that had seen him rewarded with the position of Overlord- his mere presence brought back memories too for Talion, though ones far more bitter and terrible... _'Rain pelting his face, armour-clad hands forcing his arms behind his back, nearly tearing them from their sockets, the smell of fear and smoke and blood in the air as the Orcs made sport of the dead and dying around them, Ioreth's frantic weeping, Dirhael's terrified screams and above it all, a sibilant whisper of a voice snarling an incantation in Black Speech-'_

"We will be together, my love...soon...forever"

"Ghuramu shirkush'agh ya apakurizak. Gûl-n' anakhizak..."

 _"The work is taking too long. It needs to happen faster"_ a haughty, irritable voice snapped from behind him, saving Talion from his brooding. It was the same refrain Celebrimbor had said every time one of Mordor's fortresses had fallen into their grasp. The elven wraith was convinced that a counter attack on their new prizes was inevitable and he wanted to be prepared for the moment it did, and to have their armies ready to retaliate against the Dark Lord's holdings once the assaults were repulsed and Sauron's forces diminished as a result.

"It's progressing as fast as we can. We don't have enough slaves or resources to complete the repairs. We have the fortress but the quarries and mines of Seregost remain under the command of Sauron's forces. The outposts that oversee them are still held by captains loyal to the Dark Lord; since you insisted on laying waste to this fort instead of neutralising those outposts-"

 _"This fortress knew it was going to come under attack after you helped Baranor and Idril storm it and wreak havoc in the arena!"_ Celebrimbor retorted, pacing the battlements like a caged tiger. " _It was necessary to neutralise this fortress and its master before they could send to Barad-dûr, for reinforcements! Our capture of these fortresses is an insult Sauron will not let pass! He will strike back at us, and when he does, I want his assaults to break against our walls like water against rock! His momentum will falter, and then we will sweep back the scum beneath the banner of the Red Eye all the way to the gates of Barad-dûr, and tear Sauron from his throne!"_ Unfortunately, Celebrimbor's ambitions, more and more, were exceeding his grasp and it fell to Talion to remind him of the logistics of their goal.

"These matters cannot be rushed" Talion insisted. "If we pay the due attention to the details, then this fortress will be unassailable against anything Sauron sends at us, like all those armies he has sent before. In any case, the Orcs that remain in this region are too fractious and disparate to band against us, Celebrimbor. There is no force that could assail this fortress within this region and hope to take it".

* * *

At the western wall of the fortress of Khargukor, a team of slaves were working on repairing a great rent in the wall where a rampaging graug had smashed apart the wood and brick defences apart to let the Bright Lord's warriors to storm the holdfast of Ukshak Black-Blade. Black-Blade was dead now, his skull impaled upon his namesake atop the fortress gates, and the Bright Lord was determined not to suffer his fate. The slaves were working to repair the walls high enough for new fittings to be installed into the walls that would allow burning oil or streams of toxic filth to be dumped on the heads of any attackers as they milled about trying to climb the walls. The overseers had given an estimate of two weeks to have the repairs necessary so the fortress could withstand an attack completed and they were not sparing the whip to see it done.

"Faster, you globs!" the overseer snapped, cracking his whip, marking the back of one slave with a long red slash across the spine. "Bright Lord wants that wall back up quick and you-"

His rant was cut off as three hooked blade swept out and tore his throat open, black blood spilling down his front, his blade and whip dropping to the ground as the Orc's hands vainly tried to staunch the wound before a long bladed dagger swept up and took his head off. The second overseer looked round at the ruckus, only to get a throwing knife buried to the handle in his eye. The slaves, sensing the danger, turned to run for the fortress gates to raise the alarm, only for spears thrown from the darkness to drop the three of them. Two were killed instantly, one taking a spear full in the chest, the second collapsing as the spearhead slammed into his brow. The third went down in a tangled heap as the missile took him in the small of the back; as he tried to crawl away, a black-clad Orc stormed over, pulled the slave's head up by his hair and opened his neck with a curved, saw-edged dagger. Khrosh of the Flies jerked his head up, but to his relief, there appeared to be no sound of a reaction from the fortress. His snaggle-toothed mouth contorted into an ugly leer of a smile as he motioned for his fellows, all Dark Tribe acolytes like himself, to start scaling the walls.

Ropes and grapnels saw Khrosh and three of his best clambering up Khargukor's outer wall; chancing a look over the battlements, Khrosh smiled as he saw a single guard, armed with spear and shield, prowling the walls. Waiting until the guard had passed them, Khrosh nodded to one of his men, who silently slipped over the battlements and opened the sentry's throat for him. The rest of the infiltrators clambered over once they saw the coast was clear; looking around, Khrosh could see a few more sentries prowling the walls, but no more than a handful, a single Orc prowling each stretch of the walls, with maybe one or two languishing near the braziers, waiting their turn to relieve the sentry on the wall. With Khargukor only recently fallen, it would seem the Gravewalker had fewer soldiers to hold it than he'd had to take it. It would be child's play to avoid being seen and get to the places they needed to be, Khrosh thought as his mutilated face twisted into a grotesque smile.

"You" Khrosh hissed to one of his underlings "Spike the grog barrels, and when the fun starts, set them ablaze; I want plenty of fire and explosions to cover the assault! You" he pointed to another "find where they keep the caragors in this place and turn 'em loose! The rest of you; find and free the prisoners this place might hold" Khrosh tittered maniacally as his minions departed to complete their objectives, while he moved to set a few explosives to the main gate, ready for when the main assault got underway. As he watched, his second-in-command, Bûth Eagle-Eye clambered up to the top of the gatehouse, ready to loose the signal for those hiding in the valley out of sight of the fortress sentries to launch the attack.

 _'I held up my end of the deal, Amûg'_ Khrosh thought as he slipped into the shadows, nodding up to Bûth to signal the attack as he slunk away, waiting for the opportune moment. ' _Make sure you and your Shrieker master hold up yours'._

* * *

The first warning that the defenders of Khargukor had was a mighty explosion against the outer walls to the right side of the fortress. The stink of grog and smoke hung heavy over the air as Talion stormed out of the fortress keep, sword drawn, trying to work out what had happened as Khargukor's Orc garrison raced in the direction the blast had come from. "I warned the Grog-Brewer the next time his concoctions blew, I'd have his head!" Talion seethed furiously but the voice at the back of his head voiced disagreement.

" _This is no accident_ " Celebrimbor insisted. " _This is sabotage! I warned you that Sauron's forces would come to take this fortress back!"_

"But how?" Talion demanded. "There is no force in this valley that had the power to attack this fortress! Nurnen and Cirith Ungol are pacified...the only place this could have come from-"

 _"Is Barad-dûr itself"_ the wraith's voice in the back of his mind concluded. " _I warned you we should have built up our defences! Sauron has clearly grown tired of the setbacks we have inflicted upon him. Well, when this attack is turned aside, we will march to the gates of Barad-dûr and teach the Dark Lord the folly of underestimating our strength, of thinking his pitiful Orcs can get the better of our veterans! When this is over, I will hold Sauron's skull between my hands and -_ " _TALION, GUARD YOURSELF!_ " Celebrimbor shouted and Talion dodged aside, an arrow that might have hit him in the chest slamming into the bricks of the garrison building at the exact height where his heart had been. Looking up, he saw an Orc perched atop the gatehouse reloading a crossbow and taking aim. Talion dived behind the cover of a nearby armoury, shielding himself from the Orc sniper's sights, mentally charting a course that would allow him to get to the gatehouse without exposing himself to the archer's shots, when another explosion rent the night. Chancing a look around the corner of the building, to his horror Talion saw the fortress gates had been blown apart and now a battalion of Orc berserkers, axes clutched in each hand, were pouring through the breach. As he watched, Talion saw a line of shieldbearers, their armour smeared with blue paint, move into a horseshoe formation, creating a barrier keeping the berserkers from advancing further into the fortress. At their head, Talion saw one of his finest captains, Ugakuga the Elder, a veteran of the Warmonger tribe, his leathery, battle-scarred skin, heavy plate armour and claymore all hallmarks of a life spent on the battlefield. The Elder had served him well in taking the fortress, and Talion was confident Ugakuga could hold the defences at the gatehouse for a time.

Suddenly, bellows and yelps of dismay came from the left; he saw a trio of Orcs running towards him and commanded them to stop. "You there! What is happening?!"

Two of the Orcs kept running, too panicked to stop, but the third remembered himself enough to stop and answer. "Bright Lord, the pens! Someone's opened the pens! We-!"

The report was cut short as a grey and white-streaked blur hit the Orc and bowled him over; he just had about enough time to scream before the caragor's jaws clamped shut on his skull. In an instant, Talion put an arrow through the beast's skull, too late to save the Orc though, and cast his gaze about him; it was fairly easy to piece together what had happened- the explosions had been set off, the fortress's garrison had gone running to investigate, allowing another enemy to get around and turn loose the caragors the beastmasters amongst his captains were trying to break. At that moment, a quintet of the beasts, their jaws and fangs slick with Orc blood, rounded the corner of an armoury and, sensing the sweeter taste of human meat, broke into a loping run straight for him. Talion held his ground, his eyes fixed on one point, waiting for the caragors to reach it...and then Celebrimbor loosed an arrow, hitting a stack of grog barrels exactly as the caragors were alongside it. Two of the beasts were incinerated almost instantly, while the remaining three ran in differing directions, their fur aflame, two fleeing away, the third heading straight at Talion. Whether it was coming for him in the hopes of lashing out at something in its own pain, or because it was trying to get away and didn't care what got in its path, Talion didn't know, but he held his ground until the last moment...when he dropped low and thrust his sword out when only a metre separated him and the charging beast. The caragor's own momentum did the rest.

Planting a boot on the dead caragor's flank and pulling his sword from its heart, Talion cast about him; the caragors were doing some damage, but it wouldn't be enough to fully undermine the defences. As he watched, several enemy Orc berserkers clambering over the walls were set upon by the rampaging caragors their allies had turned loose, and now they'd realised the explosion had been a distraction, those defenders who could be spared from the gatehouse and the battlements were forming up under the command of Ur-Edin Warborn, an Olog warmonger skilled in putting down Mordor's wildlife, to put down the rampaging creatures.

"Our lieutenants can handle the beasts; our presence is needed to hold the line at the gate! If they see the Bright Lord at their head, our legions will fight all the fiercer!" Celebrimbor insisted. With a nod of agreement, Talion raised his hand, the ring upon it ablaze with pale blue light, and gave a howling cry; seconds later in answer, a grizzled old male dire caragor leapt down from the rooftops and lowered itself enough for Talion to clamber onto its back. Talion grinned as he mounted the thing; one of the oldest and vilest beasts that had been caged in Khargukor when the fortress had fallen into their hands, the dire caragor had killed two Orcs and maimed a third that had tried to enter its pen. Zûgor had branded the creature ' _a right spiteful piece of shrakh'_ and the name had stuck. However, its bestial mind had been easily overcome by the power of the New Ring and Talion had claimed Spite, as he'd dubbed the monster, as his own steed- the caragor was fast, resistant to injury and savage to anything its master pointed it at.

Digging his heels into Spite's sides, Talion hung on as the caragor clambered up the armoury's walls and leapt from rooftop to rooftop. Within seconds, they had leapt to the gatehouse, where the Orc marksman had been lining up a shot at Ugakuga when he realised there was a slavering, leonine predator stood right next to him. The Orc archer's eyes went wide with terror, Talion grinning as he realised the marksman was terrified of caragors, but before he could take two steps, Spite had knocked him down and pinned the Orc to the ground. He managed to scream once before the caragor's jaws crushed his skull like a walnut between them. Leaping from the saddle, motioning for Spite to attack any other enemy archers that tried to gain a vantage, Talion leapt from the battlements, dagger drawn, crashing down atop an enemy berserker about to finish off one of his own Orcs on the ground, driving his blade into the foe's eye socket, before his sword was unsheathed, pointing it at the mob of enemies streaming in through the broken fortress gates. The blade flashed out, parrying an axe swung at his head. Talion ducked under another Orc's blade, spun on his heel and buried his sword in the offending attacker's guts. He swept an Orc's legs out from under it and beheaded the ugly creature before its back hit the snowy ground. Black blood spilled in torrents as what Talion did not slay, the Orc defenders of the fortress, buoyed up by his example, flung themselves into the fray; twin axes wielded in each hand clashed against shield and spear, defenders shoving their foes away before driving spears through their guts to bring their enemies down. Ugakuga parried a blow aimed at Talion's head, bearing the foe to the ground, beating the offending Orc to death with the spike-knuckled gauntlets he wore. Talion returned the favour by quickly loosing an arrow over his lieutenant's shoulder, hitting a berserker pulling back its axes for a swing at the Elder's back clean through the throat. For a moment, the balance of the battle swung in the favour of the defenders...and then chaos erupted.

A pair of missiles that could only have come from Siege Beasts slammed down from above, and Talion, Ugakuga and the other defenders were sent flying as both the blast impacts and the grog barrel stacks the attackers were aiming at exploded. Staggering back to his feet, Talion saw more Orc berserkers, carrying banners bearing the insignia of the Machine Tribe charging through the flames, and at their head...

"You!" Talion spat at the sight of one of his oldest and most persistent enemies, Amûg Swords-Master. Their mutual enmity had raged across Nurnen, laying waste to Queen Marwen's territories, Talion having wrought ruin upon the Orc's visage time and again, with fire, with sword, with arrows and caragor claws, but time and again, Amûg had returned to plague Talion. He'd left him for dead at the gates of Ered Glamhoth when Talion and his forces had butchered their way through the Tower of Sauron's garrison, had plunged his sword through the wretched Orc's chest when Amûg, serving as the Witch King's personal champion, had duelled with the Gravewalker in the great arena of Minas Ithil, and yet once more he had returned. ' _How?!_ ' Talion thought to himself. ' _How many **more** times must I kill you, Orc?!'_

"You should have made sure I was dead in Minas Ithil, you miserable shrakh-stain!" Amûg taunted, unsheathing the twin, venom-dripping blades from which he took his name.

"I won't make that mistake again!" Talion shouted back. "This time, I'll take what's left of your ugly head off your shoulders!" the Ranger vowed as they collided together. Gondorian steel clashed against iron forged in the foundries of Gorgoroth as their blades locked, Talion shoving his opponent away, Celebrimbor's hand covering his own as a mithril-made smithing hammer materialised in Talion's grasp, colliding with Amûg's temple, stunning him. Taking advantage of the opening, Talion lunged forward, driving his sword into Amûg's belly, but to his horror, the Orc merely chuckled, showing no discomfort at having a metre of steel buried in his guts.

"I don't work like that anymore, Tark!" Amûg sneered, a gauntleted hand darting out and seizing Talion by the throat. The Ranger's eyes went wide as the Orc Warchief lifted him clean off the ground, holding Talion up to his sack-cloth wrapped face, the rank stink of rotting meat, grog and tooth decay causing the Ranger to gag in disgust.

"And _this_ is for setting my head on fire!" Amûg sneered before hurling Talion through the air and into the heart of the raging flames the detonating grog barrels had ignited. Talion rolled as he hit the ground hard, ripping the cloak from his back- the entire thing had ignited- and throwing it over the head of an axe-wielding savage hoping to take advantage. The Orc staggered away, wrapped in the blazing rag and Talion drove his sword through the Orc's back. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Ologs, their faces smeared with black warpaint moving to attack, recognizing the gang in service to Ar-Pratu Pain-Seeker. He raised his hand to call them to his side...and was shocked when the gang of Ologs completely ignored his summons and attacked from behind the shield-bearers trying to fend off the savage Orcs storming through the fortress gates. Talion was so caught off-guard by this brazen treachery he never saw the attack coming. Something hit him in the small of the back with the force of a charging graug and sent him flying; Talion collided with the wall of a nearby building and hit the ground hard. He rolled over, but before he could get back up, a huge hand slammed down on him, pinning him to the earth. An ugly, scaly face, a sallow yellow-green in hue, distinguished by three deep scars where an untrained caragor had raked its would-be new master with its claws, leered down at him, baring a vicious smile of yellowed teeth, most filed to points.

"Everyone said you were too strong to take on. I had to wait for the right moment to strike...and I'd say the moment has arrived, wouldn't you?!" Ar-Pratu laughed gleefully, crushing Talion between the ground and the palm of the Olog's meaty hand. His laughter became a bellow of pain and fury as Talion's dagger stabbed between his fingers and the Olog recoiled; Talion rolled aside as Ar-Pratu's mace came smashing down where he had been seconds before.

"Long shall be your suffering, Man-swine! Joyous shall be your pain!" Ar-Pratu promised as he advanced, bellowing and swinging his mace in great sweeping arcs that would have crushed the man's head if they connected. Talion constantly rolled away, tossing a throwing knife or two to force the Olog to reconsider his assault. Talion ducked under the mace's next blow, aimed at his head and stabbed out with his own blade; the sword took Ar-Pratu between the ribs, but the only sound that escaped the Olog was a howl of rage that followed Talion as Ar-Pratu seized him by the shoulders and flung him across the courtyard. Suddenly, another heavy blow hit him across the back and Talion's vision began to swim; he looked behind him to see a mutilated and mutated visage, one he had last seen in Cirith Ungol. The Orc assassin licked the hooked metal claws he had in place of his arms, hissing venom dripping from their tips, the same venom making Talion's head spin.

"You!" Celebrimbor snarled hatefully at the smug sneer on the disgusting face of Khrosh of the Flies, the elven wraith baring his teeth, eager to cleave the living fly nest's head from his shoulders with the glaive he favoured on the ground, but Khrosh didn't wait for Celebrimbor to reach him, flinging two blades from his belt with the mutilated claws that served him for hands after Talion had severed both his arms. Talion ducked and dodged the knifes, wincing as a third hit him in the shoulder but he'd managed to cover the ground between them and lunged for the vile Orc when something hit him hard in the small of his back. Talion staggered forward, ripping out the point of an Orcish spear from where it had hit him; looking up, he saw a gaunt, grey-skinned Orc smile mockingly at him from a rooftop, before hurling another spear with his remaining arm, the other a rusted, hook-clawed metal prosthesis. Talion rolled away as the missile slashed through the air where his right leg had been, but before he could contemplate how to bring the enemy above him down, there came another roar from behind him and with the heavy blow of a mace to his upper back, Talion knew he was finished. He barely heard At-Pratu's mocking taunts as he was brought low, but he felt every blow pounding him deeper and deeper into the ground, tasting blood and snow and sodden earth on his lips, feeling bones break and snap...

The last thing Talion saw before darkness took him was dark green mist beginning to seep over the ground of the fortress. Above it all, he heard the leathery beating of wings and a keening screech like metal being torn... 

* * *

_**Next time: Talion returns to send a message...**_


	3. Chapter 3

Talion felt his feet hit hard stone as he fell to the ground. Shaking his head to clear it, he recognised his location; one of the barrows Celebrimbor had revealed to him. He had been resting atop one of the cold stone sarcophagi dotted around the chamber beneath the statues of High Elf warriors of the Second Age. Rising to his feet, Talion retrieved his weapons and armour, Celebrimbor raging in the back of his mind.

 _'They will all suffer for this! Every miserable Orc who rose against us, who stormed the walls of my fortress will suffer tenfold for this! Their skulls will adorn the banners our army will carry before it to the gates of Barad-dur itself!'_

"For now, we need to know what the lay of the land is. Our forces will have been scattered and broken by this; they will need to be rallied, given a target for their rage" Talion remarked as he walked out of the barrow and down the tunnel, emerging into a large, and fortunately unoccupied cave (he knew graugs had been fond of claiming the cave in which the entrance to the Sereghost barrow lay as territory), looking out over the frozen lake, the final resting place of Tar Goroth, the gaping rents in the ice where the Balrog's fiery body had smashed it apart long since frozen over, leaving the glassy surface pristine once more.

He could see a number of Orcs running across the frozen lake, more Orcs daubed in the red of those loyal to Sauron pursuing them, the chasers also including Olog-hai and caragors in their ranks, both ones clad in metal barding with riders on their backs and feral beasts whipped and beaten to hunt for their masters. Talion knew what was going on, he'd seen it before; the Orcs were amusing themselves with cruel sport, wagering on whose caragor would make the first kill or which one of their victims would be brought down and fatally mauled first.

With a raised hand and a howl, Talion summoned Spite, the dire caragor letting Talion clamber onto its back. Kicking his heels into the monster's flanks, Talion clung on as the beast leapt from its perch on the cliff side overlooking the frozen lake and began to pick up speed, its claws clicking on the ice as Talion angled it towards its target; an Orc warrior armed with spear and shield charging at one of the Orcs at the back of the ranks of the mob of would be victims, sweeping the straggler off his feet with a raking blow of the spear at his quarry's ankles. Talion blinked his eyes and the light and clarity and colour of the world around him vanished, to be replaced with a howling, dark morass of pale blue light and dark shapes- the wraith world. Seeing the world through Celebrimbor's eyes, Talion was shocked to recognise his target's victim; Ugakuga the Elder.

 _"He is one of our most loyal followers, he cannot be allowed to fall!_ " Celebrimbor insisted. The Orc defender who'd caught Ugakuga was about to bring the spear down when a one tonne caragor slammed into his side hard, sending him flying; the Orc had just enough time for a strangled scream before Talion's mount crushed his skull between its fangs, black blood staining the snow. Twisting in the saddle, Talion let arrows fly with Celebrimbor's aid in rapid succession, the spectral missiles punching two Orc riders from the backs of their caragors and dropping three of the snarling beasts. A fourth caragor, angry at being denied its prey, lunged at Spite, the dire caragor snarling in fury as claws raked its flank; the larger beast spun round and lunged at its smaller kin- the Orc on the armourclad caragor went flying as the dire caragor bore its foe to the ground, fangs clamped around its enemy's throat. The armoured caragor screeched and desperately clawed and scrabbled at the face and neck but the dire caragor's bite was unbreakable. A weak groan was the only sound that escaped the armoured caragor, pinned on its back like an upturned turtle as Spite ripped its throat out, reddish-black blood spraying the snow. The Orc who'd been sat astride it was next to die, managing to yell in horror before a spectral, blue-grey spear clutched in Celebrimbor's fist swept the uruk off his feet, before driving the blade down through his spine.

Suddenly, a meaty fist seized Talion by the shoulder, hauling him off the caragor's back and slamming him into the dirt; Talion, stunned, rolled over just in time to see a sallow, broad ugly face leering down at him. Talion returned the brutal grin on the Olog's face with a look of pure hate.

"Well, it seems pounding you into the dirt didn't work...maybe I'll pull your arms and legs off and feed them one by one to the caragors, see if _that_ keeps you dead!" Ar-Pratu laughed cruelly, before his sneer became a snarl as once again, Talion's dagger stabbed into his hand. Talion rolled away and back to his feet, the bow forming in his hands, taking aim and losing the shaft. The arrow slammed into Ar-Pratu's head, just above the left eye socket...and exploded, the Olog howling in pain as fire enveloped his head and shoulders. Talion didn't waste his opening, throwing a trio of daggers that struck the flailing Ar-Pratu in the back as he desperately tried to put out the flames chewing his flesh. The Olog whirled round, his beady black eyes narrowed in hate, and with a roar, charged at Talion, his mace sending clods of earth and snow into the air as Ar-Pratu brought it down as he bellowed a challenge. Talion raced forward to meet him...and at the last second ducked under the Olog's sweeping arm, sliding across the slippery ground between Ar-Pratu's legs. Before his treacherous former minion could turn around, Talion leapt back to his feet and drove his dagger into the back of Ar-Pratu's knee. The Olog fell forward, crying out in pain, which turned to fury as he felt Talion scramble up his back, clinging on for dear life like a rat with one hand and repeatedly stabbing him in the shoulders and neck with the dagger in the other. Black blood ran in rivulets down the Olog's broad back from at least a dozen places as Ar-Pratu flailed about, knocking Orcs in his path flying as he desperately tried to dislodge Talion.

With a roar of triumph, Ar-Pratu's fingers got a hold of Talion's cloak, hauling the Ranger off his back and flinging him to the snow. But this time, Talion recovered quicker, sliding between the Olog's legs as Ar-Pratu tried to crush him, his blade biting into the back of his enemy's legs. At-Pratu whirled round, only for a spectral silver-blue hammer clenched into Celebrimbor's hand to smash him across the face. Ar-Pratu staggered back, spitting teeth, and before he could recover, Talion ducked under his traitorous underling's flailing arms and buried his sword almost to the hilt in the Olog's belly. Gasping in disbelief, Ar-Pratu fell to one knee, trying to keep his innards held in and looked Talion in the face, defiant.

"It really gets to you that I betrayed you?!" the Olog sneered. "It was worth it just for that! Now make it hurt, Gravewalker! Give me all the pain you can!"

Talion gave him his wish; his sword collided with Ar-Pratu's mace as the Olog desperately tried to parry it, and Celebrimbor's fist lashed out, catching the miserable traitor under the jaw, sending him staggering back. Talion lunged low, and Ar-Pratu fell again as the sword drove through his kneecap and then tore out, taking his leg clean off, Talion twisting away from the Olog's last desperate attempt to grab him and brought the sword down on Ar-Pratu's neck. The first blow bit deep into meat, deep enough to show bone. The second cut even deeper, almost decapitating the Olog. The third blow finished the job, Ar-Pratu's ugly, scarred head bouncing across the ice, a final look of utter disbelief on his face.

"You're late, master" Ugakuga opined archly as Talion helped him to his feet.

"You're missing an eye" Talion retorted, gesturing to the bloody, empty eye socket in his Orc lieutenant's face as he handed a dropped scimitar to his subordinate. Ugakuga shrugged his shoulders idly. "The shrakh-eater who did it's missing a _lot_ more, thanks to you, Bright Lord" the Orc replied, gesturing to the misshapen lumps spread across the frozen lake that had once been Ar-Pratu.

"Manswine!" a high voice called out. Talion spun on his heel to spot the misshapen visage of Khrosh of the Flies leering at him from across the lake, a small force of Orcs at his back. "The overlord thought if we used a few of your boys as bait, it might flush you out...And here you are! I'm gonna cut you open and stitch a Morgai nest under your heart, then dangle you from the rafters until the infestation makes you as pretty as me!"

"TARK!" A second voice bellowed from behind; Talion turned to see a rangy looking Orc clad in the copper-hued armour of a member of the Machine Tribe, a throwing spear in his right arm, with a quiver full of more such weapons on his back, while his left was a crude prosthetic limb, tipped with hooked iron claws, where Talion's own blade had hacked off the flesh-and-blood limb at the shoulder- Lûga Iron-Claw. "The boss wants to have some fun with you, but first, I'm gonna have _my_ fun with you!" Lûga promised. "You made my blood brother's mind shatter...well now, it's _your_ turn!" Lûga hefted a throwing spear and took aim at Talion's chest when another voice interjected. "SURPRISE!"

All eyes turned to the newcomer; a warrior festooned with bones, skulls and claws woven into his armour, marking him out as a member of the Feral tribe, armed with an axe in each hand, a back banner marking him out as a commander and flanked by a mob of axe-wielding savages adorned in tribal warpaint. Talion recognised him- Hork the Carver- and felt a moment of unease after Ar-Pratu's treachery, but to his relief, Hork levelled his axe at Lûga and spat at the assassin's feet.

"You're good at what you do, Lûga...too good! And I can't have people showing me up! This is where you die!" Hork bellowed as he and his men hurtled into battle. Lûga hurled a spear at his new foe, dropping one of the savages in Hork's wake as the Carver dodged aside. Smiling in lupine fashion, Talion nodded at Khrosh to Ugakuga "Keep him busy! I will deal with the other!" Talion shouted over his shoulder as he ran to support Hork; presented with two targets, Lûga went for the most obvious. Talion cried out as the spear hit him in the shoulder, rolling to avoid a second, and then Hork was on the assassin, both axes sinking into Lûga's gut, ducking under his enemy's desperate swing at his throat with his taloned prosthesis. Lûga darted back, flinging a spear at Hork...only to then cry out as an arrow slashed through the air, pinning his foot to the floor. As Lûga desperately tried to pull his foot free, Talion leapt over him and slashed the assassin across the back, once, twice. Lûga spun round and Talion was sent staggering back as a spear punched into his gut...but in the blink of an eye he recovered and another arrow answered the blow, hitting Lûga in the cheek. Realsing that he had bitten off more than he could chew, Lûga hissed "This is all too much bother! But you'll pay, next time!"

" _There will not **be** a next time_!" Celebrimbor snarled as he set off in pursuit as Lûga tried to flee, charging with preternatural speed, striking the Orc assassin across the back of his head with his hammer, sending the panicking Lûga pitching to the snow...and Celbrimbor didn't give him the chance to recover.

 _"SUFFER ME NOW_!" Celebrimbor bellowed as he forced the Orc remain on his knees, studying, examining him as if to discern how well he might serve the cause of the Bright Lord...but then Celebrimbor felt something, a barrier against his touch, in the Orc's mind, the work of a stronger mind keeping its servants from being corrupted...and Celebrimbor's interest turned to fury.

" ** _I WILL NOT SULLY MY BLADE WITH YOUR COWARD'S BLOOD_**!" Celebrimbor roared as he seized the Orc's head between his hands, Lûga's screams accompanied by the stink of burning flesh as the Bright Lord's magic scourged him. Celebrimbor tossed the broken assassin aside with a snarl of disgust, Lûga running in the direction of the distant fortress, stopping only to try and scoop up snow and hold it to his face in a vain effort to sooth the burning sensation left by the mark branded into his cheek. Smiling savagely, Talion turned...and caught an Olog's mace to the head. He hit the ground hard, hapless as the Olog raised the club to bring it crashing down...

"Careful, Ranger! That one almost got you!" a familiar, marvelous voice shouted...and the Olog collapsed backwards, the club falling to the ground as its meaty hands flew to its throat, desperately trying to clutch at the crossbow bolt buried up to the fletching in its thick neck. "Nice shot" Talion complimented the shooter, raising his sword in salute to the pallid, gaunt figure of Bagga the Drowned. Shaking his head to clear it, Talion raced over to where Khrosh of the Flies battled to the death with Ugakuga, the pair locked blade to blade. Khrosh shoved him back and made to strike at Ugakuga's throat, only for Hork to tackle him, the commander and assassin hitting the ground with Hork atop, punching Khrosh's misshapen visage with the claws protruding from his vambraces, until Khrosh threw him off and rolled back to his feet, sending Hork staggering back as a volley of throwing knives struck him across the chest, Hork briefly stumbling as the venom on the blades began to have an effect. Khrosh laughed cruelly as he made to attack...but his back was turned to other enemies, and that was all the opening Talion needed.

Talion drove his sword through Khrosh's back, planting a foot on the small of the Orc assassin's back to kick his sword free, sending Khrosh to his knees. The Orc's mutated and deformed head looked up, his expression one of disbelief...one that remained etched on his mutated visage as Talion's blade swept out and as his head came away at the neck in a spray of black blood and Morgai flies escaping their dead host via the gaping stump of his neck. Khrosh's decapitated body remained upright and swaying for a moment, then pitched forward, blood and maggots spilling out. The remaining Orcs loyal to Sauron, with two of their leaders dead and a third shamed, broke and ran, but Talion held off his men from pursuing. Thanking Hork and Bagga for their timely arrival, and using the new Ring to restore vitality to the brutalised and tortured Ugakuga, Talion began to ascertain the situation.

"How many survived when the fortress fell?"

"Ar-Pratu went over. Tarz and Mogg died fighting. They took Zûgor alive; last I heard before they took me and some of my boys out for sport, he's being held in the fortress - I think they hope to use him as bait to draw you in" Ugakuga explained. Talion nodded in recognition of the fact his Overlord was still alive- that bore remembering, and a rescue attempt would serve to both recover a valuable captain and sow discord amongst the enemies currently occupying Kharkugor if they couldn't stop him from recovering one of his own men out from under them. ' _That may bear thinking about..._ '

"Ur-Edin got away, as did me and Snagog; we rallied at the outpost in the mountains" Hork took over. "Ur-Edin's being trying to rally your forces there, Bright Lord; we were hoping you'd show up soon enough, and we wanted to make sure we'd have forces ready for you when the time came to retaliate. Your warriors from Gorgoroth have been most useful for that..."

"I brought more archers for you, Master" Bagga explained. "I was given to understand you needed more of them. Bûbol also brought several graugs with him, broken and ready for us", which brought a smile to Talion's face; Bagga the Drowned and Bûbol of the Spiders had been two of his most loyal and dependable Captains in Gorgoroth. Having them at his side would be of great advantage, particularly with what they would bring to the fight. The beginnings of a plan had started to form in Talion's head...

"You have all done well. Retreat to the outpost and tell Ur-Edin to be ready for my return. Once I do, we will begin moving to take that fortress!"

The Orcs and their men made to do as their master commanded, but not before Ugakuga raised a question. "When you return? Where are you going, Bright Lord?"

"To send a message" was the reply.

* * *

Watching from the battlements, Amûg saw the hooded figure dismount from the back of the caragor it had ridden into the valley the fortress of Kharkugor lay at the base of, standing just out of arrow range, remove a sackcloth bag from the beast's saddle and fling out its contents- two severed heads, the pair landing just before the fortress gates; those of Ar-Pratu and Khrosh. Judging by the brutalised expressions on their slack faces, neither had died well. The hood was then pulled back, and Amug found himself staring into pale blue eyes overflowing with murder.

The Bright Lord himself stood before the gates of the fortress his arms spread wide, not the Tark who'd made a mockery of their armies and defences, but the withered, battle-scarred wraith in elven armour whose demonic visage haunted the nightmares of Mordor's denizens, whose voice Amûg had heard once before- as he lay close to death upon the sands of the great arena in Minas Ithil.

"Caper behind your stolen walls, enjoy this pitiful victory for long as you can! This fortress is the property of the Bright Lord and I mean to have it back! I will slaughter every Orc who cowers behind its battlements, who seeks to advance from my setbacks, and I will make fearful examples of every last one of you until the Dark Lord himself hears your screams from the pinnacle of Barad-dûr! Submit and rise anew in the army that will bring Mordor to heel...or oppose me and fall to your knees beside your master when my legions storm his fortress and tear Sauron from his throne!" the Bright Lord bellowed, before loosing arrows at the battlements, one after another, Orc archers up there pitching from the walls, pierced through eye, brow and throat. Amûg cursed in Black Speech at the speed with which the killing had taken place- it was a clear message; a reminder that the Bright Lord could strike them down at will, without mercy or pause. It enraged him...though not as much as the final arrow slamming into his shoulder. Ripping it free, Amûg snarled to see the Tark leap onto the back of the caragor that had borne him, kick his spurs into the beast's flanks and ride away, his taunt in response to their presence in his territory sent.

"Get after him! Get after him and bring me his head!" Amûg roared in fury. "With pleasure!" Lûga Iron-Claw spat, the angry red weal where the Bright Lord's magic had scarred him having faded to a dull red, though the dark magic involved had burned so deeply that in places, the bones of the Orc's face could be seen. Lûga made to move towards the caragor pens and mount up with the Orcs already down there when the sky began to darken, green mist forming around their feet and a whisper of a voice growled behind them:

"No. The serpent has placed its head out of its burrow and we have a chance to decapitate it for good. Leave the Gravewalker to me" the voice snarled as at the pinnacle of the fortress, a drake spread its wings and howled, letting loose a plume of fire as its master's bidding caused it to take wing.

* * *

Behind him, Talion could hear the beating of wings; the drake was getting closer. He'd gotten about half a mile from the fortress when he'd heard the bellowing roar and saw the shadow rise from Kharkugor's highest pinnacle, spreading its wings and taking pursuit. Talion desperately kicked his spurs into the beast's flank, trying to reach the caves through which he had tried to evade Tar Goroth that led to the frozen lake when he suddenly felt heat, growing closer and closer; just before it became unbearable, Talion leapt from his mount's back, hitting the snowy ground hard, rolling to his left and the stink of burning hair and meat filling his nostrils, his ears full of the caragor's hideous shrieks as the drake's fiery breath set its mottled grey-white fur alight. The caragor's screams continued even as the drake's talons sank into its smouldering back and carried the hapless beast into the air...but Talion by that point had bigger problems.

The sky had darkened, the air becoming thick with green mist as something fell from the drake's back and landed upon the earth, a missile of dark sorcery that impacted with the frozen earth with an explosion of blackish green smog. Out of the smoke emerged an all-too familiar figure, clad in armour and full helm over long, dark robes. The armour was reminiscent of that worn by the Easterlings of Rhûn, stalwart allies of the Dark Lord, but whereas the armour of the Easterling cohorts was gold and scarlet, the armour worn by the Nazgûl before them was pewter grey, tinted the necrotic green of dark sorcery. The full helm the Nazgûl wore was reminiscent of ones Amûg had seen denoting Easterling commanders, though it was more ornate, engravings of serpents down the cheek and eye guards, and a pair of curling horns like those of a ram or dragon rising up from the helm's brow. In the Nazgûl's gauntleted right fist, a long spear of Easterling manufacture was clutched, with a bronze, rectangular shield on the left arm and a sabre, its hilt and pommel fashioned like a rearing serpent, sheathed at the hip.

"Khamûl" Celebrimbor murmured. "The Shadow of the East, the Black Easterling, the castellan of Dol Guldur, one of the finest commanders in the Dark Lord's service...and the most dangerous of the Nine, save for the Witch King himself!"

Talion's sword was out of its scabbard in the blink of an eye. "If the Witch King sent you here to bring me back to Minas Morgul in chains, I will not go easily!"

A sepulchral laugh, like bones rattling in a crypt, answered him as the Ringwraith went on guard, the shield on his left arm raising to cover most of the wraith's body, the spear brought up and pointed levelly at Talion's heart. "Your interference will no longer be tolerated...or go unpunished, Gravewalker. The Witch King might want you as a thrall, chained and on your knees like a broken dog...but I serve a master beyond the Witch King. Lord Sauron wants Celebrimbor's ring for his hand and your head to decorate the gates of Barad-dûr...and I mean to oblige him!"

* * *

 _ **Next time: Talion faces his true enemy...**_


	4. Chapter 4

**_Apologies for the lengthy delay with this chapter; real life and personal commitments have been pretty much devouring all of my free time at the moment, so it's been really difficult to find any spare time to write anything more to this. Hopefully things should ease up a bit soon to allow a quicker return next time._**

 ** _I hope this makes up for the delay a bit; my deepest thanks to everyone who's read this and left a review or favourited or followed the story: it gives me such a boost and reminds me why I will see this through to the end. Hope you enjoy this chapter and that it keeps you all eagerly waiting for the next one!_**

* * *

Talion didn't think, he just acted. In the blink of an eye, three throwing knives went flying through the air; none of them hit, glancing off Khamûl's shield, but they bought the time the Gravewalker needed to cross the gap between them. Longsword clashed with spearhead as the two warriors locked blades.

"I thought the Nine wanted me under their thumb!" Talion opined, staring into the faceless, formless void beneath the horned helmet. His answer was a snarl like the grinding of stones and then he was shoved back as Khamûl's shield boss hit him full in the chest. The spearhead slashed out and Talion leant back, narrowly avoiding the ensorcelled blade carving a trench through his abdomen. Khamûl stabbed out again faster than expected, and Talion hissed as the sharp edge cut a line across his cheek, drawing blood.

"The Witch King's folly is naught to me!" the Ringwraith snarled. "I will not tolerate a rival to my place, least of all a low-blooded dreg of Gondor like you! Nor will the Dark Lord suffer Celebrimbor's ambition any longer! Lord Sauron wants you both destroyed...and his will shall be done!" the Black Easterling bellowed as the butt of his spear slammed into the earth twice. "To arms, sons of Rhûn!"

At this, Talion felt something seize his ankle hard, trying to drag him down. He looked round and to his horror, saw a skeletal hand clad in a gauntlet similar to those Khamûl wore clawing at his thigh. All around him, more warriors in the scale armour and full helms of the Easterling legions, tainted by the sickly necrotic green hue of sorcery began to drag themselves out of the frozen ground. Talion kicked out, freeing his foot from the gauntlet and lashing out with his marked hand, hearing a keening screech as he seized the helmet's closest cheek guard and the new Ring's magic banished the long dead warrior's shade back into the peace of death.

" _In life, Khamûl commanded the armies of an entire nation. In death, they fight for him and their true master still_!" Celebrimbor cursed, leaping back from another pair of hands clawing their way up through the snow, but there was no time for Talion to answer as the phalanx of undead Easterlings rose to their feet, locked shields, lowered their spears and drove him steadily back towards their master.

"Rhun has served the will of Mordor for countless generations, longer than you have walked in Middle-earth, Ranger! And the day is coming when both our lands will purge the filth of Gondor from Middle-earth!" the Black Easterling snarled as Talion rolled away from a trio of spears stabbing at chest, shoulder and throat. He ran forward, vaulting over the closest undead Easterling, Celebrimbor's hammer swiping out to clout the armoured warrior about the face, freezing him to the spot. With a roar of fury, Celebrimbor brought his hand smashing down to the frozen earth and the undead Easterlings lost their formation as magical fire exploded from the point Celebrimbor's hand touched the ground, setting the dead warriors ablaze. Talion lunged forward, sword sweeping up and decapitating one burning Easterling warrior, armour and bone crumbling into ash, banishing another, only to then cry out as a falchion carved into his back like a sliver of ice. Whirling on his heel, Talion extended a hand and a ghastly shriek preceded their attacker's dissolution into little more than mist as Celebrimbor drained the life out of the revenant, Talion groaning as he felt life flowing back into him, wounds closing up, fresh strength reasserting itself...

And then the sensation of rejuvenation was lost as Talion felt something sharp sink into his back and pain bloom from his lower spine. His hand darted out and pulled free something chitinous and wriggling; holding it to his face, Talion saw it was a spider the size of a plate, though unusually it was not the pallid white colouring of Shelob's hatchlings he'd encountered in Cirith Ungol. No, these creatures, for more were crawling across the frozen ground towards him, emerging from the ground around the Nazgûl's feet were jet black, all hair, chitinous plates and clicking mandibles, and a red marking on their bloated abdomens that resembled the Eye of Sauron...

"Did you believe all of Ungoliant's spawn seek to overthrow the will of Lord Sauron?!" the deathly voice barked, a tone that sounded almost like amusement, as the Ringwraith watched as Talion struggled to tear off the black and red-marked spiders crawling over him, sinking fangs into the exposed flesh of his neck, arms, cheeks...

"Those who haunt the boughs of Mirkwood, who prowl the heights and hunt within the boundaries of the Hill of Sorcery, know better than to cross the master of Dol Guldur and his...and so they serve as most willingly!" Khamûl bellowed as he lunged forward. Talion didn't have time to dodge away, his reactions slowed by the preternatural spider venom; he was sent flying as Khamûl charged at him with phenomenal speed, the shield boss colliding into his sternum. His head ringing as it hit hard ground, Talion rolled as the spearhead entered his field of vision, lancing for his throat; he dodged aside at the last instant, the spear stabbing into the ground where it would have pierced his windpipe to the floor had it struck seconds earlier. Another spider he hadn't managed to dislodge sank its fangs into his back and Talion felt his head spinning again as the venom took effect.

"Kill him!" the Ringwraith demanded and Talion rolled aside, giving ground as half a dozen undead Easterlings, all that hadn't been burned back into oblivion by Celebrimbor's fires formed a semi-circle in front of him. Talion dodged back from one spearhead thrust at his heart, parried a falchion clutched in the skeletal grasp of another revenant before taking its wielder's arm off at the elbow and banishing his attacker as it clawed at the stump of its sword arm, staggering as a shield blow to the side cracked his ribs, recovering enough to decapitate the one responsible...

"Burn him!" Khamûl roared, looking at a point over Talion's shoulder...

" _TALION, BEHIND YOU_!" Celebrimbor yelled in warning. Talion reacted without thinking, rolling to one side, feeling incredible heat pass inches from his back. Getting back to his feet and whirling around, he saw Khamûl's pet drake, having seemingly had its fill of caragor meat and still hungry, was closings it jaws, having set the underbrush and the ground Talion had occupied second before ablaze, growling angrily at missing its prey and rustling its wings in a threat display as it crouched low to the ground, looking like a snake ready to strike. Talion held his ground, staring into the reptile's beady yellow eyes.

" _Try me you scabarous wyrm_!" Celebrimbor challenged as the drake lunged, its long jaws opening to swallow him whole...seconds before rows of serrated teeth could clamp shut on his chest, Talion dodged aside and the drake's fangs snapped shut on air. Having lost sight of the Ranger, the beast pushed off the ground, hoping that taking to the air would allow it to find and descend on its prey...just as Talion hoped. Barely a foot from the ground, he lunged, and the drake shrieked in agony as his sword sliced off its right leg just below the knee, the scaly clawed foot hitting the ground, red-black blood spurting from the stump across the ground. Unbalanced, the beast crashed to the ground; racing up its tail and back, Talion brought his sword stabbing down into its spine between the two wings, leaving the drake crippled. Unable to do more than writhe and thrash helplessly, the drake reared up, trying to twist its head around to bite or breathe fire at its attacker...and Talion beheaded the creature with a single stroke. His feet hitting the ground as its fiery blood caused its corpse to disintegrate, its flaming blood splattering the other undead Easterlings. As they fell back burning, Talion charged forward, vaulting over one and then there was nothing between him and the Ringwraith.

Talion had been a fast runner all his life and with Celebrimbor's power increasing his agility, he was able to build up a fair amount of speed as Khamûl went on guard, crouching low behind his shield. Raising his blade above his head in both hands, Talion put his full strength into the cut; it was a blow with enough power to decapitate a ghul matron with a single stroke. Urfael hit the shield in the centre of the bronze boss with an ominous crack of metal splitting...and Khamûl staggered back, the shield on his left arm coming apart in fractured pieces, each hitting the ground with a distinct thud as it hit the frozen earth.

Talion gave a cry of triumph...which was promptly cut short as the haft of Khamûl's spear smashed into his chest, winding him. Clutching the long weapon in both hands, Khamûl swung low with it, and Talion hit the ground hard, the Ringwraith having swept his feet out from under him. Before Talion could get back to his feet, the spear came stabbing down and Talion cried out as he was brought down with a quick jerk, Khamûl having pinned him to the floor by impaling his cloak with the spear. Before Talion could try to tear it off and get up, Khamûl planted a foot on his chest, the Nazgûl kicking away the sword in the Ranger's hand and drawing the blade at its own hip, a curved sabre whose green-tinted blade gleamed malevolently in the faint light.

"It is known that the only way to slay an Orc for good and all is to remove its head...so let us see if the same works for you!" Khamûl snarled as he raised the sword high above Talion's neck, about to bring it down, the last thing Talion would see before darkness, and he hope, Ioreth and Dirhael...The sword came slashing down...and inches from Talion's throat, a pair of curved blades intercepted it, sweeping the sabre up and driving its wielder back. Khamûl screeched in rage at the interruption, and then a blinding flash of light caused the Ringwraith to retreat as a woman's voice cried out "Slink back to the shadows, spawn of Sauron! He is not yours to claim!"

"GIVE UP THE RANGER, SHE-ELF!" Khamûl roared in fury, gesturing at the elf with his left hand, a ring of silver, ruby and jet gleaming on an extended finger.

"If you want him" Eltariel shot back as she went on guard "come and take him!"

With another hateful shriek of rage, the Black Easterling charged forward and Eltariel ran forward to meet him, pausing for an instant to kick Talion's sword back towards his grasp before turning to face her enemy. Fingers closing around the hilt, Talion slashed up, snapping the haft of the spear keeping him trapped, before Talion rolled back to his feet, ripping the spearhead pinning his cloak to the ground free, ready to join the fray. He charged forward as Eltariel lunged at the Black Easterling, the Light of Galadriel forcing Khamûl to give ground. The Ringwraith screeched in pain as the illumination of elven magic seared him, raising his arm to cover the horned helm and Eltariel lunged forward, her elven short swords lancing into the Nazgul's chest. Eltariel ducked as Khamûl's sword swept out at her head and as Talion had seen in Minas Morgul, the sabre fell to earth as the elven woman's blades sheared through Khamûl's sword arm at the elbow. Howling in anger, Khamûl recoiled and staggered back, pointing at them both in turn with his remaining hand, the missing limb slowly beginning to regenerate from the swirling mists emerging at the stump where Eltariel's blades had cut in.

"The next time we meet" Khamûl vowed, every word dripping with menace "I will not be denied my prize, Gravewalker! Your head WILL adorn the gates of the Dark Lord's tower! And as for you, she-elf, interfere in matters not your concern again, and your head will be sent back to Lothlorien with an apple stuffed in its mouth, as a warning what will happen the next time Galadriel meddles in Lord Sauron's affairs!". With another keening screech and an explosion of green mist, Khamûl was gone, his spectral form fleeing back in the direction of the fortress. Talion let out a brief sigh of relief, and then nodded in thanks to Eltariel as the elf sheathed her blades, watching the fleeing Nazgul disappear from view.

"Another time I've saved your life, Ranger" Eltariel mused wryly. "You should hope I don't start keeping count, otherwise you may find me calling in a few favours". Talion gave the elven assassin a dirty look but chose not to to reply. Fortunately, her back was turned, staring down the valley towards the distant fortress where their enemy had fled.

"Khamûl was a master of warfare in his time. After this setback, he will no doubt increase the defences of that fortress ten fold. A direct assault would be suicide" Eltariel opined. Talion nodded, but his eyebrow raised at the comment.

"You know I have done this sort of thing before" Talion groused as he made his way north towards the campsite he'd been directed to come to after he'd sent his message to the fortress's new masters. "Every fortress in Mordor has fallen to my armies before now, including that one! It was merely ill fortune and bad timing that led to it falling back into the hands of Sauron's minions!"

"And even if you take it back, what will stop it from simply falling back into the grasp of its new master once more?" Eltariel questioned. Celebrimbor gave her a baleful look and raised a hand to silence any further protest.

"I will make such an example of those who stole that fortress from me that all of Mordor will hear of it and know the folly of challenging the Bright Lord! You doubt me?! Come and see for yourself!"

Silenced by Celebrimbor's rage, Talion and Eltariel fell into step behind the elven wraith as he marched away, heading towards the mountain camp where their followers were gathering. They walked in silence for a time before a thought occurred to Talion. "Khamûl truly seems to despise you" he noted.

"I have faced him more than once before" she replied "but in truth, he has had a loathing of my people for many generations now. For years, Khamûl has served as castellan of Dol Guldur, commanding one of Sauron's greatest fortresses outside of Mordor; under his command, the Orcs of Dol Guldur, often bolstered by Easterlings from Rhûn, have clashed with King Thranduil's forces for decades. When Lady Galadriel and the White Council drove Sauron out of Dol Guldur, Khamûl was forced to flee into exile with his master back to Mordor; he has hated us and been more determined than ever to retake his seat of power ever since. Khamûl stands high in Sauron's favour; of the rest of the Nine, only the Witch King himself stands higher in the Dark Lord's esteem. If Khamûl succeeds in bringing the Dark Lord that ring and your head, Sauron will grant him anything...including perhaps even the power to retake Dol Guldur for himself"

"He will not get the chance" Talion vowed. "I have his measure now, and unlike Suladân, Khamûl does not have the advantage of being on his own ground. We know this region and that fortress well; it is an advantage we can exploit against him" Talion insisted, but Eltariel did not look convinced.

"For your sake, I hope that is true. In life, Khamûl was a brilliant and ruthless general. As one of the Nine, he is one of the most foremost tacticians Sauron has at his disposal. If he fells you both and gains the power to retake Dol Guldur...Mirkwood, Dale and Erebor are still weak from the clashes around the Lonely Mountain. If Khamûl retakes Dol Guldur, they will be in little position to stop him, and Sauron will have the opportunity to carve a significant beachhead outside the boundaries of Mordor!"

* * *

As they reached the camp, Eltariel took her leave; although Talion's presence as the Bright Lord and the power of the New Ring should have been sufficient to keep the Orcs in line and herself safe, there was no telling how the Orcs might react to her presence. Instead, she took to higher ground, watching as Talion strode into the heart of the camp and the new Ring pulsed with energy, the runes cut into its circumference flaring bright as the master called the servants to his side. Looking round him, Talion saw familiar faces, all trusted and loyal; Ur-Edin Warbringer, Bagga the Drowned, Hork the Carver, Bubol of the Spiders, Zathra the Crow and many other lesser captains, not vaunted enough to have held the positions of Warchiefs when the fortress had first been conquered, but still competent enough to do what was required of them.

The gathered Orcs formed a circle around their master and Talion, spreading his arms wide, began to speak, Celebrimbor's withered visage spreading across one half of his body and their voices melding together as they addressed their armies so far.

"You have come far and suffered much, but your loyalty to me has remained ironclad, and it shall not be forgotten, _nor_ go unrewarded! The fortress in the valley below is ours by rights, and now we are gathered, we begin the campaign to reclaim it! There are tasks that will be required of each of you, roles to be played to weaken the fortress defences, sow confusion and dismay amongst its defenders and cripple and slay its commanders, but hold true to the vision of the Bright Lord and we WILL KNOW VICTORY! WE WILL TAKE BACK THAT FORTRESS, WE WILL BUTCHER EVERY LAST RANK CUR WHO DARED TO STEAL IT FROM OUR RIGHTEOUS HANDS IN SAURON'S NAME, AND PLUNDER AND GLORY SUCH AS YOU HAVE NEVER KNOWN WILL BE YOURS! ARE YOU WITH ME?!"

A cacophony of cheers and affirmative bellows came as the Orcs and Ologs gathered stamped their feet and beat fists against chests and weapons against shields and breastplates and the Bright Lord smiled, confident that they would do what was needed.

"Command us, Bright Lord. What would you have us do?" Bagga the Drowned asked and both Talion and Celebrimbor gave a predatory smile worthy of a hunting caragor as they laid out their plans for the coming battles.

* * *

 _ **Next time: The battle to retake Seregost begins...**_


	5. Chapter 5

**_Apologies for the extremely lengthy delay in updating this; my real life has gotten out of hand at late, but I intend to see this through to its end; just two more chapters to go! Hope you enjoy this latest chapter!_**

* * *

The meat cleaver flew end over end and slammed into the brow of a chunky Orc captain from the Warmonger tribe by the name of Hoglik the Stout. The watching Uruks hooted and howled in derision and cruel amusement as Hoglik fell to the ground, twitching and thrashing in his death throes, black blood running in rivers down his craggy face before the one who'd thrown the weapon, a lean Orc in patchwork armour, some parts of it involving steaks, chops and cuts of meat nailed to it, called Olgoth the Hacker was on him, another such blade clutched in his fist.

 _ **Chop! CHOP! CHOP!**_

The crowd howled in delight as Olgoth raised the severed head aloft by its top knot in his hand. Roaring to the roof of the cavern that served as the fight pit for the fortress that oversaw the valley of Seregost, Olgoth saw a flourish of movement, the corners of a cape, the deep red of dried blood, edged with gold as its wearer slipped back into the shadows, lest unfriendly eyes see him and the plan be given away. Throwing the severed head away, leaving black splotches on the snow and earth as it bounced away, Olgoth threw his head back to the ceiling of the cave and roared in triumph, drinking in the adulation of the crowd, the sense of triumph every Orc who walked into the fighting pits and emerged victorious felt.

As Olgoth exited the arena, looking for grog and meat to fill his stomach, he passed Zathra the Crow, his blood brother and soon to be the next fighter in the arena and the pair exchanged a knowing smile, a smile almost identical to the one on Talion's face high above as he looked down from his perch in the cavern roof above the arena as Zathra and his opponent sized each other up.

 _'Everything is going as planned'_ Celebrimbor whispered with predatory, almost reptilian satisfaction, already losing interest in the fight to come.

* * *

 _ **Two days later...**_

Bolg Iron-Skull was in a foul mood. His scouts had reported the Gravewalker had been sighted in one of the outposts in the valley and he, accompanied by two new bodyguards who'd proven themselves skilled and cunning fighters, stalked out of the outpost, following tracks that his bodyguard, Olgoth the Hacker had located on a caragor hunt. Once they were out of sight, the outpost behind them, Bolg seethed aloud. At this point, the only thing keeping him bound to Seregost was the spells the Shrieker had used to gain his loyalty, but with no sign of the Tark's head being provided to him as promised, and the Ringwraith locked away with the Overlord in the fortress's great hall, plotting who knew what, Bolg and his fellow Warchiefs were left to their own devices; most were filling their time hunting or abusing slaves. Bolg was one of the few urging an attack on the last outpost that the Bright Lord's forces were said to be amassing at, but Lord Khamûl seemed to show no interest in such plans...

Suddenly, an arrow slammed into Bolg's shoulder; he staggered to one side, instantly seeing where the shot had come from; a hooded and cloaked figure perched atop a ruined stone gate, a longbow clenched in his hands with another spectral blue arrow already nocked.

"So you've come crawling out from under whatever rock you've been hiding under, Tark?" Bolg lisped, chuckling and running his finger along the blade of the khopesh in his hand, pointing up at their foe perched above. "Gut him, lads! A keg of grog to the one who brings me his head!" The pair howled their warcries in answer, but not ones he'd expected to hear.

"FOR THE BRIGHT LORD!" Olgoth roared and Bolg bellowed in anger, shock and pain as he felt the blade of an axe bite into his lower back. Spinning on his heel, the cursed khopesh in his hand swept out and Olgoth just managed to duck under a blow that would have taken his head off, had it connected. Bolg suddenly staggered as an arrow hit him in the shoulder, looking round to see Talion leaping from his perch, another arrow already loosed even as the Bright Lord plummeted and a third being nocked to the string. Talion charged forward, the bow dissipating like smoke as the sword sheathed on his back was drawn, Bolg narrowly managing to parry it as Ranger and Orc struggled against each other, their blades locked as the two bodyguards turned traitor circled like wolves, waiting for an opening.

"I've waited a long time for thish, Tark!" Bolg drawled. "I've got a score to settle with you! I want your head for what you did to mine, and no pinkskin-loving traitorz are gonna shtop me getting it!"

Talion shouldered the Orc warchief back and slashed low; Bolg staggered back, hissing and clutching his gut. Olgoth lunged in and struck his former master from behind, his axe biting deep into Bolg's shoulder, then ducking back as Bolg whirled on his heel, avoiding being disembowelled. Zathra unsheathed the cursed dagger at his back and holding it aloft, began chanting; seconds later, Bolg was staggering back, an incredulous look on his face as Zathra sorcerously crossed metres in the blink of an eye, the dagger in his hand slicing a deep gash through Bolg's chest. But the Warchief rallied quickly, his khopesh slashing out and Zathra recoiling, clutching his head as the cursed blade bit into his shoulder, Morgai flies crawling out of the wound and buzzing all around his head. Before Zathra could recover, Bolg seized his right forearm, stretched the limb out and brought the khopesh blade slashing down. Zathra howled as black blood spurted from the stump of his sword arm; Bolg lunged forward, smacking Zathra across the face with the bleeding limb still cluthed in his hand, before the khopesh slashed out, and Zathra the Crow's head rolled free of his shoulders, leaving black splotches on the snow as it rolled out of its helmet and away down the hill.

With a roar of wrath at his blood brother's death, Olgoth the Hacker charged his one-time master, tackling Bolg around the midriff, bearing both Orcs to the ground. Punch after punch rained on Bolg's head and upper body, the warchief spitting blood and broken teeth, clawing at his opponent's eyes and neck, while simultaneously trying to roll to protect himself from the arrows Talion was shooting at him. Bolg managed to throw Olgoth off and swung out with his axe, hitting his opponent full in the shoulder. Olgoth staggered and fell to one knee, but as Bolg pulled his sword free, about to bring it crashing down into his traitorous bodyguard's brow, Talion struck, sending arrow after arrow into the easy target before him, each spectral shaft hitting the Orc in shoulder, wrist and ankle.

Bolg staggered, trapped by the arrow that had gone straight through his leg, pinning him to the floor, and Olgoth was on him before he could recover; Bolg's khopesh was parried by the axe in Olgoth's left hand, the right swept low and with a spray of black blood, Bolg Iron-Skull's left leg was gone at the knee. Falling to his knees, the warchief's hands desperately seized the hafts of the axes as they swung out, catching them inches from his throat. The pair struggled for a moment or two, but ultimately Bolg's strength gave out, and with a leer and a roar of triumph, Olgoth's axes swept out and Bolg's infamous skull rolled free of his neck. Olgoth seized the head by the top knot at the back, holding it aloft and howling, while Talion turned and walked away, a ghostly visage with a reptilian smile on its features creeping across his face.

 _One,_ Celebrimbor hissed in his ear.

* * *

Luga Ironclaw glared hatefully at the captive shackled to the post in the centre of Khargukor's fighting pit. The hand shaped burn wound on his face stretched and pulled painfully as his mouth contorted into a leering smile.

"Your boss is out there, don't think I don't know he is! Well, if you're expecting a rescue, I hope he does come for you, because when your precious Tark shows up, man lover, you're gonna watch me chop him up bit by bit until he stops screaming, and _then..._ then you'll get the same. You want to try begging for mercy now?!"

Zûgor the Gravewalker gave a shark-like smile as his head was forced up "The only thing you're gonna hear from me, shrakh for brains, is my laughter when the Bright Lord pulls your guts out through your throat and feeds them to the caragors while you're still breathing!". That insolence came at the cost of Luga slamming a fist into Zûgor's jaw.

"Maybe I'll start cutting bits off you _first!_ " Luga snarled, drawing a knife from his belt and idly waving it towards Zûgor's face, chest and upper body, as if debating which part to start hacking off first. "Maybe if I start chopping you up a bit, it might help the Bright Lord come out from under his rock a bit sooner!" Luga snarled as he pushed back Zûgor's head back. "I think I'll start by taking one of your ears. You can pick which one!"

With Luga's attention on his captive audience, neither the Warchief, nor any of his underlings noticed a dark shape leaping from the roof of the cavern in which the fight pit where Luga's trap had been laid was situated, landing with feline grace and not a whisper of sound upon the cavern floor. The caragors in their cages around the circumference of the pit began to snarl and snap as they got the scent of new meat, but none of the Orcs paid it any heed; caragors weren't exactly subtle beasts, and it didn't take much to set them off. So none of the Orcs paid their roars and snarls any attention...but what came next certainly got their attention.

A piercing scream got the attention of all the Orcs present as Talion seized the largest of the berserkers at the back of Luga's minions around the throat; Acharn was out of its sheath in an instant, stabbing the Orc in every part Talion could reach. When its life had bled out of it in black rivers, Talion flung the body aside, contemptuously sneering as the vast majority of the gathered Orcs ran for their lives rather than face the wrath of the Gravewalker. Only a few stood their ground to fight, and they were easily cut down, Urfael parrying aside axes and scimitars, opening throats, piercing hearts and cleaving spines in response. Soon, nothing stood between Talion and his target; Luga managed to get a spear in the way of Urfael cleaving for his chest as Talion charged forward.

"You can't save your little lackey; he's fodder for the caragors now! And as for you..." Luga snarled, filed teeth snapping inches from Talion's nose "You are going to pay for what you did to my blood brother _and_ my face!"

Talion studied the ugly red burn mark on the Orc's face, and gave a simple shrug of the shoulders. "Don't know why you're so upset; personally, I think it's an improvement...shows what you really are...weak, ineffectual scum!"

With a roar of pure rage, Luga shoved Talion back and threw a spear at his chest; Talion ducked and rolled, the missile sailing over his head. Getting back to his feet, Talion loosed an arrow at his foe, the missile hitting Luga squarely in the palm of the hand-shaped mark burned into his cheek. Overwhelmed by the pain for a moment, Luga was stunned, clutching at his head, and Talion wasted no time in running to the stake to which his finest warrior was bound; Urfael slashed out, easily cutting the ropes around Zûgor's wrists, the Orc rubbing feeling back into them as he gave a grateful nod of the head to Talion.

"I appreciate the save, Bright Lord, but how are we getting out of here?!" Zûgor asked as a chorus of horns rang out; evidently one of Luga's men had thought to raise the alarm.

"Still remember your tricks?" Talion asked. With a wolfish grin, Zûgor began chanting in Black Speech, and the Orcs Talion had cut down rose to their feet again, snarling and slavering like beasts, and promptly flung themselves at the Orc reinforcements coming to investigate the presence of an intruder. As living and dead Orcs battled to the death, Talion loosed arrows at the doors of the cages around the fighting pit; locks shattered and slavering, grey-furred caragors burst out of their cages, driven wild by the presence of fresh meat, leaping on any Orc they could get their claws and fangs on, Zûgor's necromancy raising any who'd fallen, throats torn out by bestial fangs or bodies ripped apart by feline claws. In the chaos of Orcs and beasts ripping each other to pieces, Talion saw Luga whimpering in terror- he knew the Warchief had developed a great fear of the beasts ever since his blood-brother had been ripped apart...and Talion planned to use that to full effect.

"You still remember how to ride?!" Talion shouted at Zûgor as with a howling cry mimicking a caragor's roar, Spite came racing into the chamber, Talion hastily clambering onto the dire caragor's back. The other caragors roaming wild in the chamber, confronted by a dominant male, quickly fell into line, and Zûgor quickly scrambled onto one's back, man and Orc digging their heels into the flanks of their mounts as Talion pursued the fleeing Luga. The Orc was almost at the fortress gates- Talion took a moment to marvel at the stupidity of the Orc in thinking escaping the boundaries of the fortress was a smart move- when Talion was on him. A spectral blue-grey spear slashed low and Luga cried out as he hit the snowy ground, his feet swept out from under him. Rolling onto his back, his head being forced back by the tip of the elven spear at his throat, to Talion's amazement, a defiant last snarl crept across Luga's face.

"You can kill me, but it won't change anything, Tark!" Luga sneered. "Another will take my place, but you can kill me, the Orc who comes after me and a thousand more beside...but it won't bring back your woman and your brat!"

With a snarling hiss, Talion kicked his spurs into Spite's flanks and the slavering caragor lunged. Luga Ironclaw managed to make a strangled scream as the dire caragor's jaws clamped shut around his head; the beast shook him from side to side like a rag doll, its dagger-length fangs and powerful jaws biting deeper and deeper, gouging through flesh into bone until, with a wet snap, Luga's neck snapped and Spite tossed him aside, the caragor having lost interest in its kill now the Warchief had stopped twitching.

An arrow slashed past Talion's head; the wights Zûgor had raised had been cut down and more reinforcements were coming to cut them off. "Time to go, boss!" Zûgor bellowed; both gave their mounts their head, the caragors leaping from the ground to the battlements and then onto the snowy plain and up the valley that the fortress sat in. Archers on the walls loosed a few sporadic crossbow bolts, but all fell wide of the mark. Talion was seething at Luga's last words, so much so that he barely noticed Celebrimbor's sense of triumphant satisfaction.

 _Two down._

* * *

Pugrish the Machine stalked out of his quarters just as one of his archers hit the ground hard with a dull thud. Two hell-hawks quickly descended and began pecking at the luckless Orc's backside until the Machine sent them flying off with a wave of his mutilated arm as he bent to inspect the body, cogs and gears grinding and whirring with every motion.

"What shrakh did this?! Do you know how hard it is to find well-trained archers in Mordor?! When I get a hold of the one who did this, I'm gonna tie him to a wall and let the next batch of archers use him for target practice!"

A strangled cry could be heard in the distance, but as Pugrish rounded the building's corner, seeing a hunched and cloaked figure bent over an Orc lying face-down in the snow and mud, the Orc's killer sprang to his feet and loosed an arrow straight at a bundle of grog barrels yet to be distributed throughout the fortress. Pugrish was blasted off his feet by the force of the explosion, what little flesh he had left burning and blistering, the metal parts of him growing white hot as they were drenched in boiling grog,

"Is that how you plan to kill me, Tark?! With fire and arrows and little knives?! I came back from death when you cleaved me in two! Any other Orc would have died but I survived! No, more than that, I thrived! My brothers put me back together, stronger than ever, but they didn't make me what I am... _you_ did! _You_ created the Machine...and now you will learn what happens in the meeting of flesh and steel!"

Urfael cut down, and Pugrish's scimitars, fused to his hands, parried them, trapping the longsword between them; Pugrish shoved his attacker back and slashed out at waist height- Talion had to leap back to avoid being gutted. Celebrimbor's hands overtook his own and an arrow was loosed in the blink of an eye, pinning the Machine's foot to the floor. Pugrish roared in fury, but Talion wasted no time, vaulting over the Orc warchief as he tried to pull his foot free, Celebrimbor's hammer smacking him full in the jaw as he tried to turn to face his enemy. Talion aimed a high cut, intending to behead his foe, but Pugrish spun on his heel, easily catching the blades and batting them aside. A second decapitating blow was also knocked aside; realising the fight would have to change, or it would turn against him, Talion tried a new tactic.

The bow came out again; two arrows were loosed in rapid succession, one hitting Pugrish in the metal side of his skull, the other piercing his foot to the ground again. Taking advantage of the brief respite in the fighting, Talion retreated to beside another grog barrel, spilling a vial of dried and ground up Hithlas berries into the mixture...only to then take a blow that sent him flying as Pugrish, seemingly having freed his foot quicker than expected, struck Talion across the face. With no other option, Talion shot the barrel, and both man and Orc were doused in flaming, toxic grog, Talion considering it a necessary price to try and win an early victory...only to realise he'd made a terrible mistake as the toxic sludge burning his remaining flesh sent Pugrish into a frenzied rage. The scimitars in his hand hit Talion faster than he could parry or dodge the blades, and before long, the warchief had forced Talion to his knees.

"I'm sure you may return to plague Mordor again, but it makes no matter. You can come back as many times as you like until the Shrieker is done with you, but progress will not be slowed. No, it will crush everything in its way! You and all of Gondor are just fuel for the Machine!" Pugrish roared, pulling his sword back for the killing blow...and then as the blade in his mutilated hand came down, it was parried by the stock of a crossbow. Pugrish roared in fury at being denied his kill, but Bagga the Drowned slammed the arms of his crossbow into Pugrish's face, sending the Machine staggering back. With a howling bellow, Pugrish charged forward, both blades raised above his head...and then suddenly the Orc was choking as Bagga slammed the barbed head of a crossbow bolt into the little flesh left of his throat and pulled the trigger; Pugrish was blasted off his feet, trashing and choking from the bolt, buried up to the fletching in his neck.

"Lucky I was here, Ranger; that one almost had you!" Bagga opined as the pair of them made their retreat from Khargukor but Talion barely heard it, his mind awash with Celebrimbor's assurances.

 _Three. The defences of the fortress are weakened sufficiently. It is time to gather our forces and take it back before Sauron and his underlings can reclaim it._

"And what of Khamûl?" Talion asked. "Surely an attack on this fortress will draw him out?"

 _Of that I am sure. This time, he will not have the element of surprise to his advantage, and whatever reward he hopes to gain from Sauron for this, he will find himself denied!_

* * *

 ** _Next time: The second siege of Khargukor..._**


End file.
